The Big Push to Damascus
'THE BIG PUSH TO DAMASCUS ' Nezak sat in the dark room. It had been two months since the Battle of Bajor and still he could not bring himself to move. He dreamed of brown, dead worlds and stirred in his meditation. He reached for the wooden bowl at his feet. Empty. He wondered how long since he’d been to refill it. Two days? Three? It didn’t really matter. It had been easier, at first. Working with the Klingon, the two of them hauling equipment in the dark. Nezak could tell the other man sensed a wound in him but Azaram kept his distance. Nezak appreciated that. Not enough to tell the other man but he appreciated it all the same. In the rare occasion that words were necessary, they were always sparse – “No talk feelings now. Must work math. Later, fight strong.” It was an unnerving language and Nezak’s dislike of it grew daily. There was no word for small in Klingon, for instance. Or, rather, it was the same as their word for weak (a fact which, at all of 5’8” Nezak felt intensely aware of). Hence, the kind of sentences he found himself speaking daily. Hand me the weak manual. ''Or – ''no, no that power coupler. The weak one, over there by the strong equipment crate. '' It was all like some kind of joke. A Federation officer squatting in a Klingon bird of prey petulantly demeaning his tools. Nezak liked jokes. He used to shake his head at least once an hour while working. ''Stop me if you’ve heard this one… '' And if someone from his old life ever came across him, elbow deep in the innards of a Klingon warship, Nezak always had the same reply. “Not now. I have to do this.” Not now… as though there would ever be a time he could talk to any of them again and look them in the eye. As though throwing himself into the necessities – life support for the increased ship compliment, scanners so they weren’t blind in their steel coffin, as well as deaf and dumb – as though any of it could make it so it weren’t all waiting for him the second he was done. The Captain… Bajor… The Federation. A joke. That’s exactly what it was. A feckless, rotten joke perpetrated by a petty thug. He felt like Peter O’Toole in Lawrence of Arabia. “The trick,” Nezak remembered him telling Harry Fowler – “is not minding that it hurts”. ''Not minding. Easier said than done… “Come in,” Nezak said. His eyes remained closed until he heard the familiar whoosh of the door and then he let them flutter open slowly. “You’ll have to teach me that trick sometime,” Ariennye T’Galathon said. “Somehow, T’Galathon… if it’s related to the art of sneaking or catching others sneaking… I’d imagine it would be the only trick you didn’t know.” “Actually, I know that one, too.” Ariennye stepped into the light and Nezak got a good look at her. The skin tight Romulan flack armor she wore unnerved him, embossed as it was with the standard bear of the Romulan Star Empire. Nezak wasn’t a traditional Vulcan in many ways but he never found he could be comfortable around Romulans. Even now, with T’Galathon, it was hard for him to shake the feeling that he was looking into a very dark, very driven mirror. “Is there something I can help you with?” “Funny. That’s just what I’m trying to find out.” Ariennye made her way into the room, surveying Nezak’s meager possessions. “But first – I have a question for you. What do you do with a thing that’s broken?” “If this is some kind of Romulan Zen Koan, T’Galathon, I do not have the time or the inclination to answer it.” “Right,” Ariennye replied. “I can see how busy you are – when was the last time you slept? Ate? Talked to another person?” Ariennye was one to talk. Nezak had never seen her keep the company of anyone but Azaram. “I am meditating,” Nezak replied. “I believe in times of crisis we might find an inner voice which speaks with greater clarity than the self. A path of logic.” “Well, you’ve been meditating a long time,” Ariennye said. “That’s gotta be some path you’re finding.” Ariennye traced a finger along Nezak’s book shelf. She stopped at a lone, dusty book. The one print text Nezak could find on the entire ship besides the book of Zen Buddhist poems he carried on his person at all times. She picked it up. “The Life and Times of Ambassador Spock, son of Surak.” “It passes the time.” “I can imagine. I’m actually something of a fan myself. He was quite an individual. For a Vulcan, I mean.” She placed the book back on the shelf and resumed her inspection. “Did you know that Spock dedicated his life to peace between Romulus and your people?” Nezak disliked the tone in her question. “Ours are long lives. We can dedicate them to many things.” “Oh, I imagine so,” Ariennye replied. “I’m merely expressing my admiration. Divided between two worlds, a rebel from early adulthood. It’s not a common sentiment among my people but I can see how someone might find him… impressive.” Nezak gritted his teeth. It was clear Ariennye was ahead of him in this conversation and planned on keeping it that way until. Until it suited her, at least. “Is there a point somewhere here, T’Galathon?” “Merely an observation. Although… how was it Ambassador Spock died again? Oh, yes. The Hovis Super-Nova. How silly of me to forget.” Ariennye smiled at Nezak and he shuddered. He knew Romulans had the same number of teeth as most humanoids but in Ariennye’s case, he couldn’t shake the feeling there were rows and rows too many. “It seems to me that is not something one forgets.” “No,” Ariennye replied simply. “It is not.” She let an uncomfortable pause fill the room. “You Vulcans think you’re smart. But look at the score card: Klingon civil war, The Federation eating itself and, oh yeah, my people still don’t have a home world. And in all this, have you ever thought to ask yourself the big question?” “Enlighten me. What ‘big question’ would that be?” “All that time you’re spending looking inward. For logic. For a path, a cause – ever think of looking out the window?” Nezak frowned. “So what? Your home world? Is that the point of this little exchange?” “There is no point, do what you like. Though – I would argue anyone with a basic grasp of galactic politics and psychohistory knows what will happen if my people don’t find a home world. What I’m saying is this – so you lost your captain. You lost your ship. Boo hoo. Take a look around, Vulcan. Because the galaxy is a messed up place and your troubles don’t even begin to rank on its list of travesties.” And with that, Ariennye spun on her heels and headed for the door ““That’s all I came to say,” she said. “Take it or leave it. Oh, and Azaram wanted me to tell you to come to dinner. It’s Grok again.” A moment later she was gone and Nezak once again found himself alone. He was annoyed. He wanted to ignore Ariennye and her self-serving politics. He wanted to return to his cocoon of shame and self-loathing. He wanted to never have to hurt again. But he couldn’t help it. The wheels in his head were already spinning. What do you do with a thing that’s broken? You fix it… ---- Lieutenant Allen stretched low on the Klingon prayer matt. Her focus was elsewhere. At least half devoted to the task of pretending she didn’t notice Matt Shimizu staring at her ass. Normally, she might say something but it had been a long week. Besides, she knew better than to think it was even close to the most obnoxious thing the lieutenant would do in the next hour. “So what? You’re like, in a Klingon cult now?” Allen rolled her eyes. Did she say the next hour? “The Red Path isn’t a cult, Shimizu,” Allen replied. “Not that I really need to explain that to you. Again.” “Yeah, why do you even come here if you’re gonna have that attitude, Matt? You never participate.” Allen glanced over. The rebuke came from Ensign Peck – a shapely Chinese girl she hadn’t known on The London but whom she was quickly coming to like. “I like to be included,” Shimizu answered defensively. “And with all of Starfleet coming here in the mornings, I don’t really have a choice, do I?” Allen looked around. He wasn’t wrong. Even she’d been a little surprised at the number of new Federation officers that seemed to be joining them each day. It wasn’t entirely surprising, of course. Klingon prayer rituals were an intensely physical experience. The rigorous activity blended remarkably with the daily exercises all Federation officers were used to. But it was more than that. They actually seemed to be getting something out of the experience. Allen, too. These men and women who just a month ago had been accustomed to every creature comfort of The Federation – and here they were – praying with Klingons. “You might show a little gratitude, Shimizu,” Allan said. “Azaram did save our lives. And lost a lot of his crew in the attempt.” “Yeah, but our lives wouldn’t have needed saving if it weren’t for that little, pointed eared hobgoblin. Ow!” Peck delivered a quick strike to Shimizu’s arm. He rubbed the spot where the blow landed and stared daggers. “Geeze. Overreact, much?” “You’re an ass, Matt. You know, Liz and Nezak – ” “It’s fine,” Allen interrupted. It was nice for Peck to be concerned about her feelings but she’d just about given up on Commander Nezak. She felt bad for him, of course. He’d been through a lot; maybe even more than she could handle herself. But the way he just gave up after Bajor… in Allen’s mind, that wasn’t something command did. “He can say what he wants, Peck. It’s not like Nezak’s going to be around the rest of us plebes any time soon, anyway.” “Wanna bet?” Shimizu pointed behind them. Allen turned and a wave of surprise overtook her. In the front of the room, Nezak bowed deeply before Azaram, a rolled prayer matt balanced on his forearms. “Captain,” Nezak said. “I… that is, if you’ll have me… I would like to join this morning’s prayer session.” Azaram nodded, solemn. “Of course, Green Blood. There is always room on the path…” --- “We must return to Bajor!” Nezak insisted. Azaram studied the Vulcan across the table from him intently. He sensed importance there. A use within The Path. After all, it was The Path that brought him to Azaram. The path that dictated that, of all the thousands aboard a crashing Federation ship, only this one was beamed to The Qu’Vo Kahless. The Path had surely sent him to Azaram – this strange creature of science and logic. They had spent many nights like this one in the last week, draining bottles of blood wine in his quarters. Yet still, they seemed no closer to mutual understanding. Azaram took a breath and methodically poured himself another chalice. “Is it the billions left behind you are concerned for…?” he began carefully. “Or your former life?” That at least stopped the Vulcan for a moment. “Azaram,” he tried again, weary. “I appreciate what you’ve done for us. Really. But it’s been a month. How can you be content to let us drift through space, aimless?” Azaram hesitated. He often felt he had to choose his words carefully with The Vulcan. Lest they be used against him with the tenacity of a Klingon prosecutor. But then, he never found himself wanting in expressing The Path. And The Path was in everything. “The road we walk is nameless. Were nobles and kings to respect this, all would develop along its own lines. Were they to depart, I would realign them with an unnamed bat’leth.” Nezak frowned. At least my frustration is not one-sided, Azaram thought. “I’m sorry… what?” ““To name is to command. When you name something, you seek not only to know it but contain it.” Nezak sighed. “Look, you may believe all this. But we’re talking about reality here.” Azaram couldn’t help it. He felt rage boil over. The Vulcan was not listening! Fine then. If he needed a demonstration, The Path would provide him with one.'' He removed his bat’leth from its placing on the wall and brought it down between them with a scream. The Vulcan leapt out of the way and nearly halfway across Azaram’s quarters. “Are you fucking crazy?! You could have killed me, you psycho!” “Look.” Azaram motioned in front of them. Nezak regarded the table which had once sat between them, now sliced clean into two pieces. “Fixed principles, closed systems – these are suffocating as the vacuum of space. The flow of life and war is a nameless thing and self-ordering.” Azaram stared at Nezak. He hoped he saw something break within him. He held out his weapon so that the Vulcan might see it better. “Do you see? My bat’leth has no name. And yet with this nameless thing, I might re-order the universe…” --- Nezak’s days had become a blur of numbers, to the point where he was having trouble remembering them. He’d been sleeping at his desk again; that much he could tell by the heavy creases on his face. He tried to get twenty minutes every standard ship cycle but there was still so much to do: ''fleet arrangements, government satisfaction reports, a comparison of galactic wide infant mortality rates in the Alpha quadrant… '' A hundred reports cluttered his desk in half as many languages. Nezak had already had to bone up on his Klingon to properly interpret Martok’s troop depletion memorandums. He tried to discuss what he found with Azaram but the old Klingon had just waved him off. ''Klingons, he thought bitterly. No head for numbers. Nezak’s eyes stopped, mid-read; a report on The Effectiveness of Federation Waste Disposal Among Non-Carbon Races. He turned the report over and began scribbling numbers, frantic. He couldn’t believe his eyes. He checked and re-checked his math a dozen times, just to be sure. But there it was. There was no denying it. Nezak snatched a mass of papers in a balled fist, shoved them into an old messenger bag Lieutenant Allen had left in his quarters and sprinted out the door. He was vaguely aware how ridiculous he must have looked. A Vulcan, unshaven for days, eyes red and blood shoot, sprinting down hallways. Even Klingons were giving him looks. He didn’t care. Azaram will understand, ''he thought. '' He was sure of that fact. The old Klingon would want to know. “Azaram!” He yelled. “I’ve found it! I’ve found the answer!” Nezak bounded in, then stopped in the doorway, floored. Inside his quarters, Azaram stood in the shadows, weeping. His heavy Klingon form shook loose tears that ran down his braided beard and onto the green, paginated bulkhead. Nezak was vaguely aware the room was emptier than it had been. “She left me, Nezak.” Azaram said simply. His voice was flat. Not a whimper but, somehow, a lifetime of pain behind it. “She left me here alone…” '' '' '' --- Azaram studied the Vulcan with consternation. He had grown fond of this odd, little creature in the past months but now he was trying Azaram’s patience. Nezak could be a good companion. Thoughtful, kind, of a philosophical nature – which Azaram especially enjoyed – but he could also be sullen, moody; prone to temper tantrums and long periods of withdrawal. ''How like a Klingon, Azaram thought with a bitter laugh. At that particular moment, Nezak had trapped Azaram in his ready room and beset upon him with dozens of bound reports. He pushed them at Azaram, expecting him to see something in the numbers and tiny print but Azaram was aware of nothing, save his own annoyance. “You see?” Nezak asked, eager. “Now do you see?” “I see nothing, Vulcan. I am Klingon. I find no truth in… pages and puny numbers!” “Then let me break it all down for you. '' We have to go back to Bajor.” “This again?” Azaram gave a loud scoff and pushed the reports across the conference table, away from him. “Enough with your foolishness, Nezak.” “No. Listen to me, it’s different this time. I’m not suggesting we go as a rescue ship – after reading about the crystalline entities, I’m not at all convinced there’s anyone ''left to rescue. I’m talking about the plan, Azaram.” Azaram’s face screwed up. If it was possible for him to have less idea what the Vulcan was talking about, he just managed it. “… what plan, Nezak?” “The plan. What we talked about! Fixing the universe!” “Nezak…” Azaram’s face softened. He suddenly looked at Nezak with pity. He could often forget how much this stalwart little man had been through and now… Nezak seemed to notice the change in Azaram’s demeanor. “No! No! Don’t you look at me like that, Azaram! I’m perfectly sane! Saner than I’ve ever been on this damn ship!” Azaram was skeptical. But he owed it to the Vulcan to at least hear him out. “Alright. I’m sorry, Commander. Proceed.” Nezak seemed to straighten a little at the mention of his former rank. He tidied the front of his uniform and regained a bit of his composure, then went to the reports. “Look, look here. Numbers, raw data, on every civilization for three quadrants. Intelligence. Better than the best espionage operatives working for the best agencies in the galaxy. You just need to know how to look how look at it right.” “And how are we looking at it, Nezak?” “Psychohistory,” Nezak replied. He seemed satisfied with the simplicity of this answer. “It’s a combination of history, sociology, and some pretty intense statistical modeling to make predictions about how large groups will behave over time. The more time you account for, the more reliable the results you’ll get. They wouldn’t teach it at The Academy but I’ve read Julian Bashir’s paper on the subject so many times I think I’ve almost got it memorized. His only problem was lack of processing power. Which is our problem, too, incidentally. But we have something he doesn’t.” “I’ll bite,” Azaram said, playing along. “What?” “A tipping point.” Nezak’s excitement piqued again. Like he was trying to hold universes in his head and couldn’t quite manage. In frustration, he grabbed a marker from his pile of reports and began to draw on the conference table. “Hey!” Azaram called out. But if Nezak registered his captain’s annoyance, he showed no sign of it. Finally, he stepped back from the table and Nezak could see what the strange Vulcan had drawn: a crude map of the alpha and beta quadrants. “Look, T’Galathon was right. The Romulan Star Empire is displaced, angry, just looking to lash out at the galaxy. The Cardassians are tearing themselves apart – and God help us from whoever comes out on top of that little conflict. The Klingons are aggressive, militaristic, gobbling new territory at a rate they can’t sustain. And the Federation’s turned inward, encouraging policies that yield civil unrest and totalitarian control. It’s a tipping point. A social apex. Things go one way, you set the tone for a whole century. Maybe longer. They go another… ” Nezak mimed an explosion with his mouth and hands. Azaram frowned. “And Bajor?” Nezak grinned. “That’s part one of The Plan.” He ran to the other side of the conference table and wiped off some of the equations. “Think about it. That was one of the biggest battles I’ve ever seen. And the crystalline entity swept through it and dissipated crews, life forms, but left the ships untouched. They’re just sitting there, waiting for us.” Azaram’s frown deepened. What the Vulcan was talking about was not without its glory. But it was dangerous. Very dangerous. And presumptuous, which was maybe worse. Nezak sensed his ambivalence. His eyes locked on like Federation tractor beams. “Az, look, I know how this sounds…” he began slowly. He seemed calm now, focused. “But all I can tell you is that this is the seed you planted in me. I can get you what you need: money, weapons, a fleet. Trust me. Let me help you stop your brother Mortak and put this quadrant of space right again.” Azaram regarded the Vulcan. There was wisdom in his words, but folly also. There was no doubt that the universe was speaking through him to Azaram directly. But which path was it offering? Finally, the Klingon spoke: “You would change the universe, little Vulcan?” “No, sir. I’m a first officer. I’d like to help you change it.” Nezak offered Azaram a hand and the old Klingon took it. “If you’ll let me, that is.” Azaram smiled. He was beginning to like the Vulcan, after all. --- Nezak stared out the window, thoughtful. He let the hum of the plasma coils move in time with his thoughts, feeding, as they did, into the shielded warp core next to him. He shouldn’t be down here. If someone needed him on the bridge, they might not know where to look for him. But then, Klingon Birds of Prey didn’t have observation decks. The only window in the entire ship was here, in the caudal section of the ship, right by engineering. It wasn’t like the engineering room on a Starfleet vessel. It was quiet; peaceful. Nezak knew this was because Klingons didn’t place as much emphasis on keeping their equipment up to date. In fact, ''he thought, ''I should look into the shielding on this warp core. Still, he liked it. It was the only place on the ship he felt he could truly be alone with his thoughts. Nezak watched the Red Fleet – his fleet – drift by the observation window and he felt at peace. Sure, it was only a couple of Breen ships – a full attack wing of frigates and then a couple of cruisers – but Nezak knew that would change. Once, they had been just one Bird of Prey, hundreds of uncomfortable humanoids packed into every corner like so many sardines. It was true he and Azaram had come along way. This was their fleet – the both of them. And very soon would come the time Nezak would need to sacrifice for it. Last time, it was Azaram who risked his life – and they gained much from the gamble: a fleet, weapons and, most valuable of all, information on their enemy. This time it would be Nezak who would serve as bait, trapped in that shuttle he’d built – a steel coffin once it hits the surface of the planet at terminal velocity – and they stood to gain even more. An operational headquarters, a power base, and the very first step in a very ambitious plan. The assault – Nezak corrected himself, the liberation – of Rura Penthe was less than a day away. The plan was simple: Nezak was to take his shuttle Archimedes into the atmosphere and simulate an equipment failure. One by one, Nezak would use his computer expertise to shut off vital systems as he plummeted, recreating the effects of an actual crash landing as accurately as possible. Hopefully without the dying part, he reminded himself grimly. Once Nezak was inside, he and Worf would have only a few hours to shut down the planet’s defenses from within. After that, the Red Fleet would follow shortly, guns blazing – and with a couple of tricks Nezak cooked up their sleeves for good measure.. But first, his fleet had to gather here at the Khitomer system and wait for Nezak to infiltrate the most dangerous Klingon prison in history. That made Nezak smile. Waiting was always the hardest part for him. “Captain,” Ke’Larn’s voice sounded behind Nezak. Ke’Larn was his weapons operator and Executive Officer aboard the Ku’Vo Morath. “They need you in operations.” “Thank you, Ke’Larn. I’ll just be a moment.” Ke’Larn pounded his chest and spun on his heels in acknowledgement. That unique hybrid between clockwork military precision and needless violence Klingons use to express obedience. It was strange getting used to being a captain. Being a first officer was the first job Nezak had ever been good at; the first job he’d wanted to be good at. That was something Dolan Premm had a tendency of bringing out in people. But the way Azaram was utilizing him lately… he was relying on him more, trusting him, asking Nezak to lead men and ships of his own. Trust be told, Nezak liked being a second because the buck never really stopped with you. But it seemed the days of that were long past for Captain Nezak of the Red Fleet. Nezak took one last look at his fleet, then turned on his heels and walked back to the bridge. As he left, a thought occurred to him. He heard the familiar tweet of his comm. badge as he opened the channel to Ke’Learn and the bridge. “Everything alright up there, Ke’Learn?” “Yes, sir. The Qu’Vo Morath stands ready for battle.” “About that. I’ve been thinking. With me as Captain, a name change seems in order.” “But sir. Azaram himself said – ” “Trust me. Azaram will get over it.” A long pause on the other end and Ke’Learn seemed to reluctantly accept this. “Then… what are we to call ourselves sir?” Nezak thought. It was a good question. “From this mission forward, she’s… hmm, how ‘bout… The Federation’s Dawn?” The Fed Dawn… Nezak surprised even himself with that one. He liked it, though. It was very him. “Very well. Bridge over and out.” Ke’Learn harrumphed his agreement as he closed the comm. badge. and Nezak climbed his way up to the forward section of the ship. Nezak was nervous, but mostly, he couldn’t get that quote out of his head. Peter O’Toole and Harry Fowler. The Trick is not minding it hurts. Nezak had gotten past the pain but he hadn’t quite mastered the trick yet. And that made him swallow hard in the back of his throat. Because the truth was, after all this – after the fleet and his plans and Rura Penthe – Nezak knew… someone was going to get hurt… … and it could still easily be him…